CRITICAL MASS
Night Walker
I find a black
egg in the gutter.
It weighs as
heavy as iron.
Vague fears have
the heart in a flutter.
I pick it up.
Someone is crying.
The black egg
could be a bad omen.
It would take an
elephant to hatch.
Through an open
window a phone rings.
There’s warmth in
the air, and I catch
the thrill of the
first nightingale,
so clearly I am
transparent.
It brings back
the self without fail.
I hear what’s
more real than apparent.
When the birds
fall silent it gives pause.
I’m seen through
by invisible eyes.
I put the black
egg back where it was.
The song starts
again. The spirits rise.
The New Clochard in Town
The new clochard
sees himself in the glass
of the bakery,
almost a mirror.
Having more than
is needed on his back,
though not a big
dog, he is bent over,
and his head is
naked as a tortoise
on a rare outing
from the carapace.
The greasy beard
is downy as a boy’s.
I think he sees
it as a stranger’s face.
Out of the corner
of his eye a stare,
like a fly in the
ointment, fixes mine.
Thought the
pupils are the stock blood agar,
the whites are
clear (he’s still on bottled wine).
I fumble for
small change. No. He wants me
ticked off for
invasion of privacy.
The Revenge of Alzheimers
Life is funny in
part. I still can smile wanly.
There’s no call
to lose heart at what is beyond me.
The brain’s not
what it was. That’s true. And just as well.
The world seen
through a gauze is devoid of detail
to pick on. The
general effect is as certain
as hitting a
blank wall. One of us will remain
intact. It seems
to me on the other side of
the crash, the
family have lost patience with love.
What’s a scream
about this is the contradiction
between what’s
said and is felt. I think I’ve licked them.
Run On
‘His treatment of en-
jambment was neat-
ly handled. Foot by
foot he puts his fin-
ger on the spot. Ye-
s… ’
Talking Dream
I am talking to
you in a dream.
You put me in the
wrong by not replying.
I try again, and
end up crying,
‘Don’t do this to
me’. A change of scene.
I run around from
pillar to post
hoping for a
word. It spells trouble.
And sure enough
I’m locked in a cell
with somebody who
could be your ghost.
The writing on
the wall is not mine.
Still the words
are exactly the same,
though out of
order. If I knew your name,
I would scratch
it and get you to sign.
I am tying knots
in a blanket
to jump down into
the prison sewers.
‘Being dead is
like this.’ The voice is yours.
‘The past’s a
rat-trap. The future’s not yet.’
The way out is
in. There’s no exit.
The deadness in
the air is a truce.
I hear a whisper,
and it’s good news,
‘Not to worry.
You’ll get used to it’.
Humouring Fate
On dry earth
set yourself on fire,
and leap through the air
to land in water,
merging all four in one
elemental plunge.